


Twenty-One Days

by WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)



Series: Stand Still and Breathe [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU after ep 8.23, AU to Season 9, Angst, Aphasia, Brotherly Love, Cancer, Chemotherapy, Depression, Destiel pre-slash, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Potentially fatal illness, Sam is Very Sick, Sam-Cas friendship, Sick Sam Winchester, can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/pseuds/WinchesterPooja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-one days. Twenty-one days since it all went to hell for Sam, Dean and Cas. And if all this was bad, it doesn't look like the worst is over yet. After a horrible twenty-second day, Sam's having a bad night too, and it's not bad just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-One Days

**Author's Note:**

> Months ago, when I finished Stand Still and Breathe, the lovely **Zana Zira** prompted a tag - one with Sam being cared for by Cas instead of Dean. That is where this fic comes from. This is a shorter tag, though, not as gigantic as the original story! Haha.
> 
> This can be read as a standalone, although it will make more sense if you've read SSaB. But, otherwise, all you need to know is that Sam has lung cancer, and is getting chemo for it.
> 
> This tag takes place during chapter 12 of SSaB, "Rough Nights", right after Sam has his first day of chemo plus radiation. I'd mentioned in the story that it was a bad night for him, but this is the elaboration. It's gen, though the original fic is Destiel, but I guess you could see some Destiel pre-slash.
> 
> There is much swearing in this fic, so you're warned. Also, themes of depression, as present on SSaB, and mentions of a potentially fatal illness.
> 
> Many thanks to **SPNxBookworm** for being the nicest cheerleader, and for motivating me and helping me and being a great, great person!
> 
> Also, totally unbetaed, so I'm sorry about any mistakes.

**TWENTY-ONE DAYS**

**1\. The First Hour**

The bunker was quiet, the lights dim, as Dean walked across to his room with his phone in his hand. He fiddled with it for a moment, wiping the fingerprints off the screen, as he stared at the display.

It was a pleasant night — he had been outside, and there was a nice breeze blowing. He wished he could enjoy it, though, because there was nothing like doing something without a care in the world. But, more than him, he wished Sam could have gone out and revelled in it, because Sammy really needed a break.

Sam, however, was not in a condition to enjoy anything.

Dean sat on his bed, and ran a hand over his face, wiping out the sweat that had bloomed on his skin. He required some fresh air. He required a change of atmosphere. But, no, he also needed to be here. He _wanted_  to be here. Sam might not say it out loud, but right now, he did need Dean.

He licked his lips as he opened his contacts' list on the phone, and scrolled through the names there. Instinctively, he checked the time. It was very late at night — almost midnight — and Dean wondered if Dr Greene would answer her phone, but then he reckoned that she'd be used to this. He finally found her, pressed at her number, and placed the phone in his ear.

She picked up at the second ring. "Hello?"

"Dr Greene," Dean began, "This is Dean Wilson."

"Oh, hello, Dean," she replied, sounding more alert. "What's wrong?"

Dean liked that she cut to the chase. But then again, she was a doctor, and the only calls she got at this time would have to be when something was wrong with her patients.

"Sam's not doing well," Dean sighed. "I—"

"Symptoms?" she cut him off.

"Puking," Dean said, moving his hand over his face again. "He's throwing up a lot."

"How many episodes?"

"I don't know," Dean said, slumping in his place. "A half-dozen times, I guess? I — it's pretty non-stop. Every few minutes." He paused, waiting for the doctor to respond.

"When did he take the anti-emetics?"

"Just after dinner, doc. Couple of hours ago, tops."

"Anything else?" she asked.

"The usual chemo stuff," Dean replied. "His head's aching pretty badly, though. And I think he said something about his joints — but that wasn't so bad last time, and I think it's bothering him more after this session."

"The headache is because of the radiation," the doctor told Dean. "And the joints are the cisplatin. I'd have prescribed him steroids, but—"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I know."

"Did he eat?"

Dean recollected Sam picking at his food, and throwing away most of it. He shook his head. "Not really."

"His empty stomach is probably worsening the nausea," she reasoned. "Have you tried giving him some toast or crackers?"

"He's refusing."

Dr Greene sighed. "You can't give in to that, Dean."

"I can hardly force him, doc."

"Try convincing him the best you can, and keep his fluids up," she said. "If he vomits up the toast, let him stay on liquids. Keep up his Gatorade and water intake. Under the worst circumstances, there's Pedialyte. Patients tolerate it well usually."

"Usually."

"It's chemo, Dean," the doctor said sympathetically. "He's already on a sufficient dose of anti-emetics, and I can hardly ask you to stop the treatment."

Dean took a deep breath. "What if he doesn't stop puking?"

She paused. "If he's still vomiting in the morning, and is entirely unable to keep fluids down, get him to the hospital at around six. I'll arrange for an order for IV fluids."

"Six?"

"He'll be all right, Dean," the doctor replied to that. "He should stop throwing up soon. His body is just overwhelmed by the chemo and radiation all at once. Get him to catch some sleep, if you can, and he'll feel better."

Dean listened to her, and nodded slowly. "Okay." He hesitated. "Can I call you if—?"

"If anything goes really wrong, then yes. The pain and the nausea are normal, okay?" she said gently.

"Yeah. Okay." Dean was starting to get frustrated because for the doctor, it might have been normal, but that didn't make it any easier on Sam.

Dr Greene was silent for a few moments. "Take care," she finally said, breaking it.

"Thanks, doc," Dean replied, keeping the phone down. He pocketed it and placed his palms on the mattress, tilting backwards, and staring at the ceiling for a long moment. Sam had started throwing up an hour ago, and he wasn't getting any relief. And Dean wouldn't lie to himself — he was fucking worried about Sam.

He sighed.  _Fuck_. This was not fair. Not to Sam. Not to anyone.

 _Sam_. Sam needed him.

Dean stood up from his place and pocketed his phone as he smoothed the bedcovers. He'd try to get Sam to sleep as soon as he could.  _Until then, well_ …

He bit his lip as he exited the room, to the bathroom, where Sam was situated. He cringed as he heard the retching, echoing off the tiled walls, and made his way inside, moving over to crouch beside his brother.

Sam turned to cast a look at him briefly, before leaning over the toilet bowl again and breathing through his mouth. Dean felt the washcloth on Sam's neck, and removed it. Then he went over to the sink to rewet it and as he did so, Sam heaved again, harshly.

"Hey," Dean said, going back to kneel beside him and placing the washcloth back on his neck. "I spoke to the doctor. She said you'll get better," he said.

Sam didn't reply to that. He just shut his eyes and rested his forehead over his folded arms on the toilet seat. As an added delight to all his symptoms, Sam was having trouble speaking too. Brain mets, Dr Greene had said again and again, and Dean knew it — brain swelling and brain mets, and whatever-the-fuck it all was, but fuck it; fuck it all, couldn't Sam just catch a freaking break?

There was a moan, and Dean turned his attention to his brother, who was trying to sit up, but failed, as he slid his head back onto his arms. Dean moved forward, took the other washcloth from Sam's lap and ran that one under the tap as well. "Here," he said, kneeling back down next to Sam. "Wipe your face."

Sam shook his head and turned away, and Dean licked his lip. "What do you want, Sammy? What do you need?"

Sam tried to shift again, took a sharp breath, but didn't reply. Dean placed a hand on his back. "Can you move to the room?"

Sam shook his head no. He hesitated, and then raised a shaking hand, pointing towards the wall, and slumped back down. Dean looked at his brother a moment, and then realised that Sam was only asking to change his position for a bit. Something he was unable to do by himself because the pain was too fucking much.

"You tried to shift there?" he asked Sam.

His brother nodded.

Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "You won't hurt if I move you?"

Sam nodded again, and then shrugged, as if to say that he had no other choice, and Dean couldn't bear it anymore. "Sammy," he said softly, "we'll take you to your room. That's better than sitting against that wall, man. If you wanna move anyway—"

But Sam shook his head again.

"Okay." Dean raked a hand through his hair. "Okay, I'll help you. Just sit up, okay? Just for a moment."

Sam raised his head, and turned to Dean with bleary eyes, as Dean stood up and bent over, putting his hands under Sam's armpits. Taking care not to jostle Sam too much, he heaved his brother and hauled him two feet back, all in one go. He could feel Sam's ribs under his hands, and he tried not to think of it as his brother leaned against the tile wall and shut his eyes, tears streaming out of them.

Dean opened his mouth to talk, when Sam put his hand on his abdomen, his eyelids crinkling as more tears fell out from beneath them. Dean's heart leapt. "Sam?"

His brother shook his head again, and took shallow, panting breaths, his fingers curling to clutch at his obviously cramping abdomen. He didn't open his eyes as he reached out one shaky hand and tapped at his knees, which were still bent somewhat under him, though Dean knew that the shifting might have been enough agony to them.

"Want to put your legs straight?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam nodded, and swallowed. Dean crouched down. "Okay. I'll try to do it as slowly as possible. Tell me if it hurts, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam whispered hoarsely. Before he could reach Sam's legs, though, Dean grabbed the bottle of Gatorade that he'd put in the sink. He pressed it in Sam's hand, and uncapped it.

"Have some for me?"

Dean knew Sam wanted to protest, but he was a little surprised when his brother raised it to his lips without saying anything. In the meantime, Dean clutched Sam's calf and slowly began to straighten Sam's leg out, feeling his brother shudder at every move.

"Easy," he said, patting Sam's knee as he continued with his task. Sam finished sipping at the Gatorade and he set it at the floor next to him before leaning back against the wall again. Dean, in the meantime, worked on Sam's other leg, trying to ignore his brother's soft, pained gasps as he straightened it out for him.

"All done," Dean said, once he was finished. "All done. You'll feel better."

Sam didn't reply. His face was grey, sweat beads collecting on his forehead as he swallowed against what Dean knew, was more nausea. His hand was still grasping at his stomach, and Dean wished there was something he could do, because this was so not fair. This was so not fair…

A belch from Sam distracted him and Dean shook out of his reverie as he turned his attention to his brother. "You gonna puke again?" he asked, looking around for the bucket.

Sam opened his eyes, and took one look at Dean. Suddenly. his shoulders hitched, the Gatorade starting to stream back out of his mouth.

"Shit," Dean swore, going ahead to lean his brother forward, and Sam vomited again, the meagre contents of his stomach running down his chin as it escaped him in gasps and sputters. His eyes were still watering and Dean slung his arm around Sam's shoulders, letting him bend some more so he wouldn't choke.

Sam whimpered at the movement and heaved, and Dean placed one hand on his brother's shaking shoulder. Sam raised his hand, grasping as Dean's elbow and eyes screwed shut as he retched again and again, bringing up bile and acid as he coughed and gasped.

Dean felt his heart clench in his chest. What on earth about this seemed normal to Dr Greene?

"Sam," he said, when Sam had finally,  _finally_  finished throwing up. "You need to lie down."

Sam pressed a hand to his eyes, and took a deep breath. "M-M…mmaw," he said in the quietest whisper possible. Dean knew that it meant 'no'.

"I'll bring the trash can," Dean said. "You'll feel better if you rest." He paused. "You trust me, right?" He paused, and when there was no response, he placed a gentle hand on Sam's neck. "Sammy?"

His brother finally uncovered his eyes, and took one look at Dean, before nodding.

Dean smiled wanly. "The doc said that you'd stop puking if you rested. I think we should listen to her."

Sam hesitated, ran a hand over his mouth, and then nodded again.

Dean patted his shoulder once as he started to stand up. "I'll get some fresh towels and better clothes, yeah?"

Sam nodded again and leaned back against the wall, proceeding to shut his eyes.

Dean left the room, praying to any and every entity out there, that his brother's agony would just lessen. As he took out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for Sam, he didn't hear the footsteps, or notice the quiet presence behind him. He didn't notice Cas leaning against the doorway for a moment and watching Dean with forlorn blue eyes, before retreating to his room.

What Dean did know, though, was that this was going to be a bad night, and that Sam needed all the care that he could get. And, dammit, he'd stay up the whole time and take care of his brother, if he needed to. He would do his part in helping Sam out.

He would do his best to make Sam better. And Sam had to get better, because there wasn't another option to it.


End file.
